Gah. Dark thoughts like these are gonna have me in the fetal position under my table if I keep this up.
Come on, Lila. Think happy thoughts.
I wonder if I could change my name, move to the Bahamas, and live out my days braiding hair by the cruise terminal. I’ll wear a bathing suit made of coconut shells and palm fronds when I’m lazing on the beach. And then I’ll find a man with a delicious accent who loves my bubble butt, lives to serve me pina coladas, and has the biggest hammock on the island. Maybe he’ll feed me grapes, then rub gobs and gobs of sunscreen all over my body. He’ll ravish me every night under the stars while a steel drum band plays in the distance.
I peruse the room casually, looking for Reed. Although I can’t see him, I know he’s here, which likely means he’s finally ready to face me again. More injustice I’ll soon suffer through. None of this would happen in the Bahamas.
Why am I searching the room this way? I don’t want to see Reed.
Except I do want to see him, and that grinds my gears too.
Sadly, when I picture myself on that beach in the coconut shell bra, I’m not dancing into the arms of a dark-skinned islander. It’s Reed flipping Hayes, holding the sunscreen and thrusting his hips.
He’s infiltrated my fantasies now.
Always has, I suppose.
I can’t stop thinking about how soft his lips were. How he tasted when he worked his tongue over mine. And how good his thick cock felt in my grip, as fleeting as the moment was.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him raking his hungry eyes over me in the kitchen the other night. Skimming his hands along my shoulder and setting off butterflies in my stomach.
And those dimples.
I abhor how much I want him.
While I’m flipping off my body chemistry for the weight loss thing, I’ll shoot a big ol’ bird at my hormones for theircraptaculartaste in men and the unfortunate weakness for dimples.
Stupid hormones.
A distinguished man wearing glasses, a dress shirt, and a necktie approaches my table. “Mind if I sit?”
My lips curve instantly, a giant smile overtaking my face. “Absolutely. Please do.”
Yes,pleasesit and save me from my internal lamenting.
He makes no move for his wallet or pockets, and I don’t see any chips. Maybe he’s new to this. Not everyone knows casino protocol. Newbies tend to come during off-hours like this, when their lack of knowledge is less likely to annoy the high rollers.
Finishing my boredom shuffle, I tap the cards against the side of the shoe to straighten them, then grab the yellow card used for cutting the deck. “Are you a big blackjack player?”
“Nope. Never gambled a day in my life. Unless you count my pal’s monthly poker game.”
“It’s slow now, so it would be my pleasure to teach you.” He doesn’t object or comment, so I continue. “First lesson is to cut the deck before I put the cards back in the dealing shoe.”
His pleasant expression warms me to him instantly. By the time I show him how to cut the deck by placing the yellow card where he wants it, my smile is no longer forced.
Sheesh. My daddy issues are out of control lately. Probably since my life is crumbling. Even a smile is enough to make me feel gooey inside. In no time flat, I’ll be hanging on his every word and asking him to take me out for ice cream.
For clarity, I don’t meandaddy issuesin a sexual context. Far as I know, I don’t have those. Instead, Ihave the type where I greedily slurp the briefest hints of kindness from every older man I meet. I need them all to like me, and if they do, I instantly fall in love with them. Again, not in a sexual way. It’s theI-never-had-a-father-who-was-kind-to-meway. Whatever you call that type.
Pathetic, maybe?
He squints at my name tag. “Lila. That’s a beautiful name.”
My shoulders roll back, and my heart goes pitter-patter. “Thank you. And you are?” I begin lowering the cards into the shoe.
“I’m Special Agent Warren Andrews. FBI.”
My hands turn into weapons of deck destruction. Cards go flying over my head, raining down on both of us before scattering across the table and floor.
